


Flowers but Fading Seen

by moonlighten



Category: Original Work
Genre: But Anachronisms Abound, Chocolate Box Treat, Fae & Fairies, Fairies, Fantasy, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Vaguely Medieval setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22681831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: According to Duncan's grandfather, the fae will enter a home in the dead of night to perform chores if they're left a suitable offering.On the eve of an important competition, Duncan sets out a bowl of whisky, hoping that he might tempt a brownie into sharpening his sword or putting new soles on his boots.Instead, he attracts the attention of a Seelie prince.
Relationships: Human Male Knight/Fairy Prince Who Covets Him, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 30
Kudos: 226
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Flowers but Fading Seen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fair_Feather_Friend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fair_Feather_Friend/gifts).



Bathed in the fractured, prismatic light streaming in through the chapel's stained glass windows, Duncan kneels in supplication and murmurs the right prayers to the right gods in the right deferential tone. The High Priestess anoints his hands with consecrated oil and presses her forehead to his left palm in blessing.

It's all very pious and respectable, but it doesn't feel like _enough_.

That night, when Duncan's family are sleeping and their house is quiet and still, he fills the clay bowl his grandfather had given him with whisky and reverentially places it on the writing table set beneath his bedroom window. That doesn't feel like enough, either. All the other rituals he knows need words to complete them – a prayer, a hymn, or an incantation – and this one seems unfinished without them.

His grandfather never mentioned that there were any words he should say, though. He will just have to make up his own.

"Erm, hello, good sirs," he says, because politeness is seldom wasted even if it is voiced to the empty air and he feels extremely foolish about doing so. "I have a boon to ask of you and offer this whisky in payment for it.

"I'm taking part in an important competition on the morrow, and I would be grateful for any aid you could give me that could help me to win it. So… I thank you in advance for any kindness you might show me."

The air doesn't answer. It doesn't fill with unearthly lights or the chanting of phantasmal voices, only the faint sounds of Duncan's father snoring, drifting up through the floorboards from his bedroom below.

Disappointed, Duncan retires to his bed, and for a long while afterwards, keeps a careful eye on the bowl, looking for any signs of movement. But just as the proverbial watched pot doesn't boil, a watched offering doesn't get any takers, seemingly. Nothing stirs. 

Duncan rolls onto his side and draws his blankets up over his head, so he can better resist the urge to peek. In the warm, heavy silence gathered beneath them, sleep is quick to come.

He's awoken some time later by a soft sound, perhaps the scuff of a foot against floorboards or someone clearing their throat. He sits bolt upright, heart hammering hard, one hand clutching the bedclothes around his shoulders, the other fumbling towards the lamp set on the small table at his bedside.

But there's no need for it. The curtains have been thrown back from his window and light limns the form of a slim young man sitting perched on the edge of the writing desk, bright as day despite the thin crescent moon outside. He has light brown skin and fair hair, which falls in soft waves to his shoulders. His amber eyes reflect the moonlight strangely, seeming to glow from within.

"Well met, Duncan Fraser," he says. His voice is deep, rich, and melodic, with a lilting accent that is definitely not local.

And it's clear at a glance that the man is definitely inhuman, and not just some laughably inept burglar, caught in the commission of a crime. Quite what he is, though, Duncan is less sure of.

"Who are you?" he asks.

"I am one of the Fair Folk," the man says. "I believe that's what your people call us."

"Really? _You're_ one of the fae?" Duncan says. "You're not what I was expecting...."

Truth be told, Duncan hadn't been expecting much of anything to come of the ritual. He had hoped that it would succeed, of course, but his grandfather is well known around town as being a dreamer and teller of tall tales. A bit of a character, according to Duncan's mother. 'Full of shite' is his father's less charitable interpretation.

"Oh?" The faery cocks his head to one side, bird-like. "And what would that be?"

"One of those wee fellas." Duncan measures out a couple of inches between his thumb and forefinger. "Red cap, pointy shoes, wizened little face like a pickled walnut."

"A brùnaidh?" The faery waves a hand dismissively. "They're only any use if you need your floor swept or your dishes washing. Do you have some minor household task you need performing?"

"You don't know what I want?" Duncan asks. "I did ask when I set out the whisky. Didn't you hear me?"

"I'm not one of your gods. I'm not omniscient." The faery frowns at Duncan, as though disappointed by his ignorance. "And I don't gad about the place listening at people's keyholes just in case someone might be asking something of me within."

"Then why did you come?" Duncan asks. "Was it just for the whisky?"

"I wouldn't cross the room for this swill, never mind the realms." The faery wrinkles his nose at the bowl beside him on the table. "And how do you expect me to drink it, anyway? Lap it out of the bowl like a cat? I don't suppose you have a glass?"

"Not on me, no," Duncan says, shaking his head.

"Ah, well, that's no great loss," the faery says airily. "So, Duncan Fraser, what did you ask for, if it wasn't help with your chores?"

"Every year on his birthday, my king puts on a tournament, and on the last day there's a competition for all the local low-born lads," Duncan says. "A test of strength, endurance, and character, and the winner gets to be trained up as a knight. They might even be chosen to join the King's own guard one day, and—"

"You're naught but the poor, simple son of a farmer." The faery gives him an indulgent smile. "Or, oh, a woodcutter!"

Duncan can't imagine what it is about their large, well-appointed house in one of the most expensive parts of town that could possibly have given him that impression.

"I'm apprenticed to my father," he says. "He's a milliner, and thought to be the best in the entire kingdom. We're not poor."

The faery's smile slips. "That's not very mythic." He heaves a deep sigh. "But you do dream of becoming a knight, though? Long to leave the giddy world of hat-making far behind?"

"All my life," Duncan says. "And I've been training hard for years. I know I'm good, but I'm not sure I'll be good enough to win. I'm only nineteen, the youngest in the competition; the other lads have been training much longer."

"I have something that I think may help you in your ambitions," the faery says.

He reaches up and plucks a necklace seemingly out of the aether: a thin gold chain upon which a charm in the shape of an oak leaf is hanging. The charm is made from some pale, pearlescent stone Duncan doesn't recognise, and carved with such skill that, notwithstanding its colour, it looks as though it had been picked from a living tree, each vein and droplet of dew clinging to its underside replicated in meticulous detail. Duncan wants, very badly, to touch it.

But Grandfather's voice rings fresh in his mind, as loudly and as clearly as if he had spoken direct in his ear.

' _Never take any gift from them other than the gift of labour. They can bind a soul to them, otherwise. And make sure you don't cross the buggers, lad. If you do, they'll stick you with a donkey tail soon as look at you or curse your John Thomas to fall off_.'

Wise words from a wise old man. 

Duncan would much prefer that his John Thomas remains exactly where it is, so he says, "No, thank you, sir," and he bows as best he can without leaving his bed, not wishing to offend. "I don't want it."

He offends anyway, judging by the flash of irritation that crosses the faery's face. "Why did you call on my people to aid you if you have no intention of accepting what we can offer you?"

"I thought they'd maybe sharpen my sword or put better soles on my boots," Duncan says. "Nothing more."

"And the brùnaidh would have been willing and able to do that for you, but I am a prince, and I can give you so much more," the faery says. "This amulet would make you stronger and swifter than you've ever been before. It could bring you everything you desire."

Duncan's heart lurches, skipping a beat. If the faery claims to be a prince, he must be one of the Seelie court, and Grandfather had warned him about them; told him that they were mostly kind, and usually benevolent, but prone to playing tricks on humans. And those tricks could be unthinkingly cruel and, as they had access to such immense magical powers, oftentimes dangerous, too.

He is even more determined to refuse now, and yet more so to be polite.

"No, thank you," he says again, and again he bows, though much more deeply than before. "Your Highness."

The faery prince's eyes narrow, one of his hands clenches into a fist, and the air crackles and seems to thicken, as though there's a storm or some other great power building. 

But then he shrugs, pockets the amulet, and says, "I'll take it away with me then, if that's what you wish."

Duncan blinks at him in surprise. "As easy as that?" 

"If I were to force you to accept it, then it wouldn't be a gift, would it?" The faery slides down from his seat on the edge of the table to stand in front of it. "As I have no intention of cobbling your boots, there's no more I can do here. You'll just have to rely on your natural talents in that competition.

"Farewell, Duncan Fraser."

Duncan imagines that the faery will sprout wings and fly away from his room, or else summon a floating ragwort stem to ride on as they do in children's tales, but instead, between one blink of Duncan's eyes and the next, he simply disappears.

* * *

Duncan had had to settle for third place in the wrestling portion of the king's competition, having lost in his final bout to Fergus Campbell – blacksmith's apprentice, and a man with the physique of a particularly active and well-nourished bear.

He'd won the foot race that followed and, by his calculations, if he finishes within the top five in the sword fighting to come, he can win the competition as a whole, too.

Pushing himself so hard in the race has not been without its consequences, and he almost feels as though he's still running it. His legs are aching, his heart pounding hard, and he's wringing with sweat, head to foot, beneath his stiflingly thick gambeson and chain mail.

He'd found an empty bench at the edge of the tournament field, far from the clamour of the baying crowds, and sank down onto it gratefully, meaning only to sit for a spell and recuperate. But it's half an hour on, and he hasn’t even been able to catch his breath properly yet.

He must look wretched, because a passing servant, liveried in the king's colours, fetches him a brimming mug of water, which he places at the far end of the bench.

"You look like you need this, sir," he says.

Duncan grabs the mug with alacrity, but some small seed of suspicion makes him pause and inhale deeply before he takes a sip from it. It smells sharp and woody – more akin to crushed pine needles than any water he's ever drunk before.

He lowers the mug and inspects its contents. The liquid within has a faint blue glow and is gently effervescing, quite unlike any water he's ever _seen_ before, either.

He realises then that it had been the familiarity of his kind benefactor's voice that had caused him to hesitate.

He looks up, and is unsurprised to see the faery prince standing before him. He is dressed in servant's garb but makes a poor semblance of one otherwise, as his feet are bare and his long hair is unbound.

"What is this?" Duncan asks, inclining his head towards the mug.

"An elixir of my own invention," the faery says. "It will help you recover your vigour."

And likely to leave him addlepated or bewitched besides; Duncan trusts this gift no more than the last.

"Again, thanks, but no thanks, Your Highness," he says. "I don't want this, either."

He reaches out with the intention of handing the mug back to the faery, but he jumps back, his eyes wide and fixed aghast on the vambrace covering Duncan's forearm. Experimentally, Duncan shuffles across the bench, inching towards the faery, and again he retreats a step.

"I guess the stories about the fae fearing cold iron are true, then," Duncan concludes.

"I can't say that I _fear_ it," the faery says, "but I do find it discomforting, so if you could stay exactly where you are right now and don't come any closer, I would appreciate that. And if you really don't want the elixir, then just pour it away."

Although it had been at his suggestion, the faery still pouts sadly when Duncan upends the mug and empties it onto the ground by his feet. A thin plume of smoke rises from the soil as the strange liquid soaks into it, which serves to strengthen Duncan's conviction that he had once more made the right choice.

"Such a waste," the faery says, shaking his head. "But I'm not sure you needed it, anyway. You've performed with great distinction already, though your stance is too upright when you wrestle – that might well have been what cost you that last bout – and you swing your arms too wide when you run."

The faery is as slender as a sapling, and his hands are soft, the skin smooth and uncallused; Duncan doubts that his life involves much in the way of either wrestling or running.

He rolls his eyes. "I don't suppose you have any tips for improving my technique with the sword?" he asks. 

Though question was asked in jest, the faery answers it as though it had been posed in earnest. "As I've not seen your form yet, I couldn't possibly say," he says apologetically. "I shall make sure to watch your upcoming matches very closely, so I can give you more helpful advice when next we meet."

With that, he disappears again, leaving no trace that he had ever been there at all, not even depressions in the grass to mark where he had stood.

* * *

Not wanting to tempt fate, Duncan's family had made no plans for how they might celebrate if he did happen to win the king's competition, and his victory party was perforce an impromptu one, begun when his father burst into their local, the Royal Oak, and offered to buy a round for everyone who was drinking there at the time.

He hasn't had to buy a pint since, as a steady stream of their neighbours has been trickling into the pub all evening, each one of them keen to share a celebratory drink with him. Normally a reserved, taciturn man, he has twice told Duncan he loves him, thrice embraced him near hard enough to crack a rib, and broken into song too many times to count.

He's also had to take several urgent trips to the privy over the course of the evening, and when he bolts away from the table on his latest one, the faery prince slides into his recently vacated chair to take his place. He has ditched the servant's uniform in favour of closely fitted trousers and a shirt made of material so diaphanous he might as well not be wearing one at all, but is once again carrying a mug.

"Congratulations!" he says, trying to pass it to Duncan. "It looks like those natural talents of yours _were_ enough, after all."

"I've already got one," Duncan says, gesturing towards his own half-full mug which he's been sipping on for the past hour or more. "You keep that. You can drink a toast to me, if you fancy. "

The faery scowls at him. "I promise you, it's just ale - purchased from the innkeeper here just moments ago. You can ask him yourself, if it'll set your mind at ease."

"You could have slipped something into it between the bar and the table," Duncan counters.

"I did not," the faery says, sounding primly offended to have been accused of such a thing. "Here, I'll show you. It's perfectly" – he takes a deep gulp of the ale, and then gags, as though he's just swallowed a mouthful of spoilt milk – "vile. Urgh, mortal alcohol is disgusting."

He slams the mug down on the table, and then rubs compulsively at his lips with the sleeve of his flimsy shirt, swiping away the lingering foam bespeckling his top lip.

"I guess you really weren't lying about not coming here for the whisky," Duncan says, chuckling. "Why did you come, then? You never got around to saying last night."

"My brother and I were discussing important, courtly matters, and encountered a slight difference of opinion," the faery says. "Our conversation became quite heated, harsh words were exchanged, and I decided it would be best if we parted ways for a while, so I went for a walk to clear my head."

The evasive dart of his eyes, duck of his head, and rush of blood to his cheeks suggest this recounting is not quite accurate.

"You stormed off," is, Duncan thinks, closer to the truth of the matter.

"I strode with great purpose," the faery continues smoothly, as though he had not been interrupted, "into the woods which surround the royal palace, and there I heard a strange chiming sound, like the ringing of some far-distant bell."

"What was it?"

"That bowl of yours, calling out. There was nothing appealing about the whisky – how could there be? – but that bowl has summoning spells woven into it. They weren't strong enough to pull me out of Elfhame directly, but as your kind very rarely calls upon mine these days, I was intrigued and set off to follow it to its source."

"And why are you still here?" Duncan asks. "Why didn't you just leave when I refused to take your gift?"

"Maybe I was intrigued by you too." The faery's voice drops to a low purr. "Or maybe I was bewitched by your great beauty and couldn't tear myself away."

Whilst Duncan is confident that his face isn't likely to scare horses, he's never been one to turn many heads, either, and his younger sister, Rhona, did once say that he looked like a stunned haddock. To be fair, he had just told her she smelt like the backend of an incontinent donkey at the time. Their relationship had been a tumultuous one, ages eight through twelve. Mother used to have to sit between them at the dinner table to keep them from trying to eviscerate each other with their silverware.

"I don't believe you," he says.

"That's a shame," the faery says. "Because then you'll doubt my intentions for offering you this gift, too."

He leans closer – close enough that his shortening breath stutters warm across Duncan's skin, and close enough that his strange, otherworldly scent envelops him: something like fast-flowing water, clear night air, and freshly-turned soil. 

The faery cants his head, lips parting and obviously offering a kiss. Duncan shouldn't want it; he's heard the old stories – the cautionary tales – about men who kiss the fae and disappear from kith and kin for seven years and more, but the faery's lambent eyes are mesmerising and he _is_ beautiful – more beautiful than any mortal man Duncan has ever seen. He leans in to meet him.

"Duncan!" 

The sudden call of his name shocks Duncan back to his senses, and near shocks the faery clean off his chair. He teeters at the edge of the seat for a moment before righting himself.

Duncan looks up to see his older brother, Douglas, standing at the other side of the table and glowering at him censoriously.

"Who's your friend, Dunc?" he asks. "Are you not going to introduce us?"

Duncan opens and closes mouth uselessly, exactly like a stunned haddock, as he realises that he can think of no feasible reason he would know the prince and, indeed, doesn't even know his name, rendering introductions somewhat challenging.

Thankfully, the faery steps in to perform this bare rudiment of politeness in his stead. He springs to his feet, proffers his hand to Douglas, and says, "My name is Oleander."

Douglas ignores both the hand and Oleander as a whole, and then says to Duncan, "Don't forget that you have big day tomorrow," before lumbering off again.

"That was my big brother, Dougie. He's a bit of an arse," Duncan says by way of an apology once Douglas is safely out of earshot.

"So I see." Oleander slumps back down onto his seat, looking perturbed. "He certainly doesn't seem to approve of me."

"I wouldn't take it personally. He doesn't approve of anything much apart from hats. Even then, he's picky. He has very firm ideas about ideal brim widths and hates the new trend for long plumes."

This coaxes the beginnings of a smile from Oleander. "Then he sounds very much like my own brother. Though I can't speak to his opinion on plumed hats, he is somewhat… pigheaded."

Duncan smiles at him, enjoying this moment of camaraderie, this shared understanding of being burdened with overbearing siblings, even if one brother is a Seelie prince and the other is just a self-important wanker who likes throwing his weight around a little too much. 

Oleander smiles back, his eyes sparkling rather than glowing. Lightly curved, his lips look even softer, and Duncan wants to kiss him again. Infuriatingly, though, Douglas was right. He shouldn't be kissing anyone right now, faery prince or no.

"Anyway," he says, "Dougie thinks I shouldn't be drinking too much or… dallying with anyone. I've got an early start tomorrow, and I'm going to be presented to the king. I want to make best impression I can, so I should be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."

And as tempting as the prospect of dallying with Oleander might be right now, it wouldn't make for a restful night.

Oleander had clearly come to the same conclusion, as he says, "Then I should leave you before the hour grows any later. I should return to Elfhame soon myself. My mother is probably starting to think that I strode purposefully off a cliff or into a dragon's lair."

"You haven't been home yet?" Duncan asks. "It's been almost a full day."

"Time works differently in my realm," Oleander says. "Most likely, no more than an hour has passed since I left."

He gets to his feet once more, then hesitates, and asks Duncan, quite diffidently, if they might be able to meet again, perhaps at the king's palace, once Duncan has settled there

Duncan should say no, it would doubtless be safer to do so, but yes must be on the tip of his tongue because he voices it immediately and without thought.

"Then I shall see you there, Duncan Fraser," Oleander says, and his smile now is warm with promise.

This time, he leaves the human way, via the pub's front door.

* * *

It is never spoken of outside the palace, but most past winners of the king's birthday competition never became knights and were instead found other posts in the king's retinue, more suited to their abilities and talents.

If they had been able to seek the honour of the title in the traditional way, then they would have begun service as squires to an established knight at fourteen and learnt all the skills necessary for the role at their side slowly and naturally, as they performed the duties expected of their position and entered into the daily rhythms of palace life.

Just like them, Duncan has been put on the back foot, having to try and cram five years' worth of experience into the six months he's been living in the palace, so he can have even a breath of a hope of keeping up with lads many years his junior, never mind his own age. He spends his days practicing his horsemanship, sparring with the sword and the mace, and attempting to navigate the convoluted rules of courtly etiquette without making a fool of himself or insulting anyone too badly in the process.

More often than not, his evenings are given over to entertainment, though he derives very little in the way of pleasure from them. He has danced ever since he was a small child, at feast days and festivals, but it wasn't the right sort of dancing, seemingly. The nobility don't just dance for the joy of it, move however the music takes them - there are a whole complicated series of steps he has had to be taught and consequently tries and mostly fails to replicate as he gyrates unsteadily around the Great Hall, partnered with whichever young lord or lady has taken pity on him and doesn't mind him treading on their toes every now and then.

After he's embarrassed himself sufficiently at the dancing and retired for the night, he reads enormous, dry, dusty tomes about chivalry and heraldry until he can't keep his eyes open anymore and nods off to sleep over them. 

He barely has enough time to eat or even piss, never mind wonder over the whereabouts of faery princes, and, as a consequence, he is both thoroughly surprised and completely unprepared when he returns to his room after sword practice one day and discovers Prince Oleander sitting cross-legged in the centre of his bed.

Duncan's clothes are filthy, soaked through with sweat, and his hair is a dripping windswept tangle – he's in no fit state to be receiving visitors, not least royalty, of any realm.

"I know I said you could visit," he says, tugging at the front of his shirt in a futile attempt to smooth out some of its wrinkles, "but I was hoping for advance warning first. How did you get past the guards?"

"Oh, I have my ways," Oleander says. 

Whilst the coy tilt of his head and fluttering eyelashes are likely meant to hint that he'd seduced his way into the palace, the open window at his back suggests a more prosaic means of ingress, even though Duncan's room is situated on the fifth storey of the palace's north-eastern tower, which stands at the top of a sheer cliff face.

"Now you're back," Oleander continues, "you'll have to give me a tour of your new quarters."

"You've not poked around yet?" Duncan asks incredulously. He probably wouldn't have been able to resist doing so himself were he in Oleander's place and he's not one of the fae, whom he had presumed would have little concept of what human's found polite or any respect for their boundaries.

Oleander, however, looks insulted by the insinuation that he'd take the opportunity to go snooping through Duncan's belongings. 

"My host wasn't here," he says primly. "That would have been unforgivably rude."  
  
"Well, there's not much to see, in any case," Duncan says. "You're obviously already acquainted with the bed, and other than that there's just a bookcase, the wardrobe, and my worktable."

Oleander gets down from the bed when Duncan gestures towards the last and wanders over to pick up one of the carved wooden figures arrayed there, his fingers moving carefully and methodically to avoid brushing up against any of the steel-bladed whittling tools scattered across the tabletop.

"What's this?" he asks, which is a damning indictment of Duncan's carving skills, even before screws up his face into the expression of a man who's just discovered that the brown smear on his shoe that he'd assumed was mud is actually dog shit.

Not that Duncan can blame him for that reaction. Carving is a new hobby, and he's not especially good at it, but he'd needed something to occupy himself of a night on those rare occasions when he couldn't bring himself to read so much as another word about the chivalric code or military strategy.

"A toy soldier," he says. "I'm making a whole troop of them for my older sister's wee lass to play with."

Oleander turns the figure over to inspect equally inept paintwork on its back. "What does it do?" he asks.

"Do?" Duncan repeats, puzzled. "Well, whatever the wean wants it to, I guess." He picks up one of the other soldiers, and makes it march across table. "Like fight for their king or slay dragons." There was meant to be a dragon too, but Duncan couldn't get wings right and they kept dropping off, so he has given up on the idea for the time being. "They just have to use their imagination."

"Fae children have much livelier toys," Oleander says. "Like this." 

He grabs a piece of uncarved wood and closes his eyes. Prudently, it transpires, because when he then speaks a few hushed words – a magic spell, Duncan assumes – the wood starts to shine with a pure, white light so intensely bright that it dazzles Duncan momentarily.

When his vision clears, there is a little soldier standing on the palm of Oleander's outstretched hand. It's so incredibly detailed that Duncan can scarcely believe that it was once wood, despite having just – barely – witnessed its creation. Even at a distance, Duncan can discern the buckles fastening its breastplate, the creases in its trousers, and even individual hairs upon its head.

When he moves closer to get better look, the toy rushes forward and tries to stab him in the arm with its minute sword.

"What the fuck…?" Duncan barks out, hurriedly rearing away from it. "I couldn't give that thing to my niece! She's only three!"

"I can't return it to being wood," Oleander says, "not now there's something like a spark of life in it. You'll have to keep it, if you won't give it away."

Quite apart from his reticence to receive any sort of gift from the faery, Duncan doesn't like the look of the soldier. There's a disturbing glint of malevolence burning in its tiny eyes when it looks at him, and he fears it might try and slit his throat the minute he turns his back on it.

"Once again – no, thank you," he says.

"You won’t even accept a toy from me?" Oleander shakes his head wonderingly. "I'll take it with me, then. My own niece may find it diverting, even if yours wouldn't."

Against its silent, sword-swinging protests, he shoves the soldier into one of his coat pockets – where it instantly quietens – sighs deep, and then glances around the small room until his gaze alights on the chess board sitting on the bottom shelf of Duncan's bookcase.

"How about we play chess?" he asks. "I trust you won't have any objections to that."

"No, I'll gladly take you up on a game," Duncan says. None of the squires play, and he's been sorely missing Rhona as an opponent of late. They've always been exceedingly well-matched. "Just as a word of warning, though: I am pretty good."

"I'm sure I'm better," Oleander says with a haughty smirk that makes Duncan all the more determined to beat him. "I have had several hundred more years than you to practice, after all."

* * *

  
There doesn't seem to be any special order to Oleander's sporadic visits; no specific time or day or even season he prefers, but they do soon fall into a pattern of a different kind.

Every few months, Duncan will return to his room and find him waiting there, usually with a book brought to help pass the time, but always with a bottle of wine in hand.

It's fae wine, made and bottled in Elfhame, which Oleander insists tastes like the very essence of summer. Duncan had sampled some once, and thought it tasted like the medicine his mother had forced down his throat when he was suffering from choak as a child.

He sticks to whisky as they sit by the fire and Oleander weaves tales about his pompous brother and the latest scandals to rock the Seelie court, and Duncan tells him about his training and, latterly, his knightly responsibilities. 

Duncan is always careful not to drink too much, sit too close to Oleander, or even look at him too often. He is still certain that it would be dangerous to kiss him and, as the temptation to do so grows stronger with each visit, he cannot risk his resolve weakening any further.

Oleander is bolder, and flirts, and insinuates, and touches Duncan whenever he can on the flimsiest of pretexts – nothing demanding or even inflaming, just a light skim of his fingers across Duncan's shoulder on the curve of his knee to attract his attention, or a swift tap on his arm to emphasise whatever point he was making – but never presses for anything more.

When the hour grows late, and if Duncan's duties allow for it, they play chess long into the night.

Sometimes, Oleander brings the enchanted wooden soldier with him, misguidedly thinking that Duncan might retain some interest or fondness for the strange creature that was birthed in his bedroom.

It seems to view the chessboard as some manner of battlefield, and they have to invent new rules to account for it hacking at the pieces until they're sent scattering, or else hurling them off the board to their doom.

It keeps their games interesting as the years roll past.

* * *

When Duncan was chosen to serve in the King's own guard, he was provided with more commodious quarters which befitted his newly exalted station.

Not only were they far larger than his old room, and situated in a less isolated and vertiginously lofty part of the palace, but they were almost as luxuriously appointed as those furnished for the use of visiting nobles and other such dignitaries, with ornate tapestries in abundance, their own solar and garderobe, and a canopied bed wide enough to sleep three quite comfortably, according to Sir Amery, though Duncan has not yet been fortunate enough as to verify that claim for himself.

They also contain an embarrassment of riches where seating arrangements are concerned: wooden chairs at the dining table; a chaise longue in Duncan's bedchamber; a plushly upholstered sofa positioned at the perfect distance in front of the fireplace in the solar so as to be warm, inviting, and safe from any errant sparks escaping the hearth.

As has been his habit since Duncan's relocation, Oleander eschews all of them, and instead squeezes himself into Duncan's favourite armchair alongside him, his knees knocking against Duncan's, and his arm, flank and hip a long line of heat pressing close against Duncan's side.

He also eschews any form of greeting – as has been his habit for far longer – in favour of peering down at the book laying open on Duncan's lap and asking him, "What are you reading?"

"A first-hand account of the Battle of the Black Mountain, written by one of the knights who fought in it," Duncan says.

"That sounds dreary," Oleander says, which has been his opinion on every book he has ever found Duncan absorbed in. Duncan wonders why he even bothers to ask the question anymore. "Fae literature is much more uplifting."

He sighs, rests his cheek against the curve of Duncan's shoulder, and then shifts his attention from the unsatisfying book to Duncan's face, tracing the crow's feet at the corner of Duncan's eye with the tips of his fingers. It's only a cobweb-brushing glance of a touch, but it makes Duncan's entire face burn, all the same.

"You're getting old," Oleander says wistfully.

"Hardly," Duncan scoffs. "I'm only twenty-eight."

"Fine. You're decaying, then. Do you like that any better?"

"Not really." 

Duncan had noticed the fine lines that had begun gathering around his eyes, and the few grey hairs that had lately sprouted at his temples, but he hadn't paid them much heed, and they certainly hadn't caused him to start fretting about his own mortality or the transience of youth. To the contrary, as his mother had a full head of white hair by the time she was thirty and his father had none left at all, he had thought himself well blessed.

He supposes, though, that such small changes must seem striking to Oleander, whose looks have not altered in any particular throughout the nine years Duncan has known him.

"Don't worry, my dear, you're still beautiful to me." Oleander trails his thumb down the side of Duncan's face to rest at the pulse point just below his jaw. "And you still will be when you're a wizened old greybeard with no teeth left in your head. 

"But there would be no need for any of that if you would only come to live with me in Elfhame."

They have had this conversation all too often over the years, and it has never ended in a way that brings any satisfaction to either of them. And Duncan really doesn't want to have it again.

"Oleander," he says, and the name is brusquely spoken – a warning that he has no wish to pursue the subject any further. 

Oleander ignores him.

"You would stop ageing, then – be forever young," he says, and then he pauses, considering. "Youngish," he concludes.

"As I've said… fuck, so many times: _I can't go with you_. Time flows differently in Elfhame, you told me that yourself, and when you get tired of me and kick me out—

"I would never!" Oleander protests.

"My family, my friends, everyone I know would likely be dead," Duncan continues, implacable. "My whole world would be gone. Why don't you stay here instead?"

"There's not enough magic in the mortal realm," Oleander says, as he always says at this juncture. "And it's so much harder to bend time around myself here. It's cumbersome, and so heavy that sometimes I feel as though I can't move under the weight of it." He shakes his head, his fine hair snagging against the stubble on Duncan's cheek. "It's impossible, so we should just make the most of what we have now."

Oleander places his other hand on Duncan's thigh, and squeezes gently – a silent question and offer both.

Duncan has embarked on several romantic affairs since meeting Oleander, and though they all fizzled out and died on their arse in short order, he still holds out hope for better. For someone who's willing and able to give him more of themselves than two or three nights a year can provide. 

There's little enough chance of finding that now, when most of his heart lives where his body can't follow. He doesn't want to risk all of it residing there.

He shifts his leg, shakes his head, and both of Oleander's hands drop away from him. Oleander folds them together demurely and stares down at them in silence for a spell.

"Ah, well, at least we'll always have chess," he says eventually, his voice straining with forced levity. "Do you fancy a game?"

* * *

The next time Oleander visits Duncan, his appearance is marked by none of his usual tricks and theatrics – a window left open as a tantalising hint at powers of flight that Duncan has hitherto never observed; a wafting scent of meadowsweet and lilacs to herald his arrival; a disembodied voice speaking Duncan's name with a lover's heat before he reveals himself – and he simply blinks into existence in the middle of Duncan's bedchamber.

He's stoop-backed and shaking hard, as though wracked by a fever, and his hair is plastered to his brow by the sweat that is trickling down his face.

"What's wrong?" Duncan asks, rushing immediately to his side. Panic makes his voice break shrilly, in a way it hasn't otherwise done since he was a youth, but then he's never seen Oleander looking anything less than perfectly poised and put together before, either. "Are you sick?"

"No, I'm not sick," Oleander says, flinching away from Duncan's hand when he reaches out for him. "There's too much iron here. Armour. Swords. The ground's saturated with blood. What's happening?"

"The Southern king and his army have breached our border," Duncan says. "My king has called us all to arms, and we're to march out and engage him in the field. You're lucky I was still here; another hour or so, and I would have been gone, most likely."

"Right." Oleander nods sharply. "So, you are about to do battle, then. I have something that should help you in the fighting. Protect you."

He fumbles through the pockets of his trousers and coat, eventually producing a thin gold chain upon which a charm in the shape of an oak leaf is hanging. The same amulet which he had wanted to give Duncan on the night they first met.

He tries to press in into Duncan's hand, but just as he did then, Duncan refuses to take it. The price is just too high.

"You still don't trust me?" Oleander asks, sounding more disheartened than angry. "Even now, after all this time? It's a gift freely given, Duncan. I don't expect any more of you than I already have."

"But the magic would," Duncan says. "That's not a gift that gives itself freely. There's always a price to pay in return for it, as I understand it."

Duncan's never known how much truth there was in the old tales, that a man might be granted the skill of prophecy by the fae's magic if only he gave up the ability to lie, but Oleander's silence on the matter seems to bear them out.

Oleander sucks in a deep breath that makes his entire body shake even more violently, then, in a sudden rush, he darts forward, grabs hold of Duncan's shoulders, and kisses him.

There's no tenderness in it, only desperation. It's rough, harried, and his teeth sink so deeply into Duncan's bottom lip that they draw blood.

"Please, stay safe," he says as he draws back a little way, rests his forehead against Duncan's. "Make sure you come back home."

Duncan pulls him into a tight embrace, but has little else to offer in the way of comfort.

"I'll certainly try," is the best he can promise.

* * *

The sky is growing dark, the sun's light swallowed up by the massed wings of the vast flock of crows that have gathered to feast on the dead.

Their frantic cawing is loud enough to drown out the sound of battle - far distant now. The fighting has moved northward, and Duncan has been left behind in the mud where he fell.

He thinks he may be grievously injured, but he can't remember anything between taking the mace to the stomach which knocked him from his horse and waking up here, staring up at the ill-omened birds circling overhead. 

He isn't aware of any wounds, but then he can't feel anything beyond the unbearable pressure bearing down on him, as though some enormous, invisible boulder has been dropped onto his chest, pinning him in place. His arms, his legs, even his face – everything else is numb.

"You didn't try very hard to stay safe, did you?" a voice says, and it sounds to be coming from somewhere nearby, though Duncan isn't able to pinpoint its exact source and can't turn his head to check. "I'm disappointed in you, Duncan Fraser."

The voice sounds like Oleander's, but it can't be him, not in the midst of all this iron. It is perhaps just a trick of a dying mind, conjuring up a pleasant memory to make the passing easier. Duncan tries to speak anyway, maybe even apologise, but the air is too thick, and his breath lies stagnant and useless at the back of his throat.

Something moves at the periphery of his vision, blocking out the last of the sun's rays. Duncan thinks it might be a person, but the shape is blurred and indistinct, and he can't make out any of its finer details.

"You should rest," that familiar, beloved voice says.

It sounds like good advice. Duncan is impossibly weary, and wants nothing more than to sleep.

He closes his eyes and allows himself to drift away.

* * *

  
When he wakes again, there is no sky above him, but instead a whitewashed ceiling and polished beams. There is pain now, too, but it's dull and muted, coiled deep beneath the bandages which are swaddling far too much of his body: his chest, his right hand to the wrist, his left leg from knee to hip.

He crooks his elbows and shifts his weight onto them, meaning to push himself up into a sitting position so he can take better stock of his surroundings, but a woman leans over him, places her hands on his shoulders, and eases him gently back down against the straw tick mattress until he's lying flat on his back once more.

She's perhaps a decade or so older than Duncan himself, nearing middle-age, her long hair more salt than pepper, and her eyes a startlingly bright shade of blue that Duncan is certain he would recall if he'd ever seen them before. But he doesn't. 

He doesn't recognise her face any more than he recognises her voice when she says, "Easy now. You're going to tear your stitches if you're not careful."

"Who are you?" he asks. He _croaks_. His voice has been worn down as thin as a knife's edge, and the words feel to tear at his throat. 

"Mistress Kennedy," she says. "I'm a… healer, of sorts."

She then proceeds to ply her trade on Duncan: tapping at his chest, checking his pulse, and even peering in his mouth as though he's a horse she's considering buying. Once she's poked and prodded at near every inch of his exposed skin, she pronounces him to be 'doing well'.

"Your colour's good; your fever's broken," she says. "I think you’re finally on the mend." Raising her voice, she calls out, "Your Highness! Your young man's woken up!"

"Youngish," Oleander calls back as he saunters across the room to join Mistress Kennedy at Duncan's bedside. 

"I'll give you two a moment to catch up, then I'll take a look at your wounds," Mistress Kennedy says, glancing between them. "And yours too, Your Highness."

"What wounds?" Duncan asks Oleander once they're alone, because he can see no evidence of any.

Oleander's skin is still a little ashen, but it is unblemished from what Duncan can see of it, and his eyes are shining as brightly as they ever have. He looks far more like his normal, vibrant self than when Duncan had last seen him, hunched and shivering in his quarters at the palace.

"Just a few burns on my arms," Oleander says with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Nothing to worry about."

Years ago, during one of their late-night fireside chats, Oleander had said that there was nothing in the mortal realm that could do him any real, lasting harm. Nothing but silver and iron.

"Then, I wasn't hallucinating. It really was you I saw," Duncan says, amazed. It seems to be the only explanation that could make sense of the voice he'd heard there; of Oleander's burns. Of how he'd found himself here in an unfamiliar room, safe and clean and tended to. "Did you… Did you carry me from the battlefield?"

"Not all the way. And not by myself," Oleander says, and he ducks his head, avoiding Duncan's eyes, as though he's embarrassed to have to admit as much. As though, unbelievably, he's ashamed that he didn't do it all on his own, despite his injuries and the pain they must have caused him. Just being on the battlefield alone must have been an agony in itself. "Mistress Kennedy helped."

"How do you know her?" Duncan asks.

"We first met when she was little more than a wean," Oleander says. "She'd managed to open up her own path into Elfhame; an astonishing feat for one of her tender years. Now she's… Well, I suppose you'd call her a wise woman."

"A witch?" 

Grandfather had told Duncan about them, as well; how they consorted with dark forces laid horrendous curses on those who so much as looked at them funny. The witches of Grandfather's tales were all frightful old crones, though, and nothing at all like Mistress Kennedy, with her kind face and gentle hands.

"Don't look so horrified, my dear," Oleander says, loosely clasping Duncan's unbandaged hand. "You mortals are quick to attribute all kinds of maleficence to witches, but magic can be used for great good as well as ill.

"Mistress Kennedy is a skilled healer, and she helped you where I could not. You were grievously wounded, and my own magic is not as powerful here as it is in my own realm. Nor is healing one of my talents, I'm afraid." 

He looks ashamed again, and Duncan squeezes his hand with all the strength he can muster, hoping to offer him some reassurance.

"I'm sure you did all that you could," he says. "Certainly, it's more than I'd ever have expected. I'd never would have dreamt that you'd do something like this for me."

"Duncan," Oleander breathes, and he crouches down, leans in towards Duncan, his lips parting as though he's about to say something more or perhaps even kiss Duncan again.

But Mistress Kennedy's return to the room distracts him, either way, and he drops Duncan's hand and steps back from his bedside to allow her to take his place at it with her large bowl of steaming water and pile of rolled bandages.

She places them on the floor by the bed, and then makes a shooing motion towards Oleander, asking him to give them privacy. Oleander looks set to obey, and Duncan is seized by the sudden fear that he'll pull one of his typical disappearing acts as soon as he's out of sight, and then they'll not meet for another half-year again.

"Will you stay a while?" he asks. "We can talk some more later."

"Of course," Oleander says, bowing to Mistress Kennedy before he steps out of the room.

Mistress Kennedy smiles and shakes her head, then in a low, soft voice, meant only for Duncan's ear, she says, "He's not left this cottage once since we brought you here."

* * *

  
From then on, whenever Duncan wakes, Oleander is sitting at his bedside.

Sometimes, they talk, but their conversations are light, inconsequential, as Duncan's still weak and he can't summon up the concentration required for the discussion of weightier matters. Besides, Oleander has scant interest in what he terms 'petty human squabbles' and has little to tell him of the war's progress beyond those few, threadbare rumours Mistress Kennedy picks up whenever she visits the town nearby.

And sometimes, Oleander reads to him from a fae-authored book that is, apparently, widely held to be one of the best examples of its kind. It's so densely written and uses such flowery language that Duncan can't make head nor tail of it and consequently doesn't much care for it. Oleander tells him that he has no poetry in his soul, to which accusation Duncan counters that any self-respecting book should have more fighting in it if it had any hope of holding a person's interest.

Mostly, though, Duncan just sleeps, occasionally rousing closer to the surface of consciousness whenever he hears the sound of voices. Usually Oleander's, sometimes Mistress Kennedy's, but one day he hears a new voice, and it is one he thinks he recognises.

When Oleander next visits his sickroom, bringing a bowl of the congealed, near-inedible slop that he always cooks up when Mistress Kennedy is otherwise engaged of a mealtime and tries to pass off as porridge, Duncan asks him, "Was that Sir Amery I heard here earlier?"

"Yes," Oleander says, though his slight hesitation and the furtive narrowing of his eyes suggests that he had considered lying.

"What did he want?" 

Oleander delays his reply even longer this time, busying himself by placing the bowl onto the small table beside Duncan's bed and smoothing out his bedclothes, tucking the edges neatly beneath the mattress, before saying, "He, um… The Southern king's army has been routed. The war's been won. According to Sir Amery, you were injured saving your king's life; took a mace to the chest that was meant for him.

"As you weren't numbered amongst the dead, your fellow knights have been searching for you these past few days. Sir Amery overheard some of the local townspeople talking about Mistress Kennedy's latest patient, and he tracked you down here.

"He wants you to go back to the palace with him. Apparently, your king is going to bestow some great honour on you in recognition of your bravery. I told him you wouldn't be going anywhere for the foreseeable future, because you're still too weak to move."

"I'm not," Duncan protests. "I can walk again now, and—"

"Yes, you can _walk_." Oleander snorts. "From your bed to the privy, and from the privy back to your bed again. I very much doubt you'll be walking all the way to the palace any time soon."

"I wouldn't have to," Duncan says. "Sir Amery would bring me a horse. I'm fairly sure I'm strong enough to ride. If my king wants me to return to the palace, then I should do so. It's my duty to serve him in any way that I can." 

"Your duty to get hacked apart, fighting another man's battles?" Oleander says, curling his top lip in distaste.

" _My_ battles," Duncan says. "I'm a knight; war _is_ my duty."

"If you came to Elfhame—"

"Then I could fritter away my time drinking horrible wine, reading even worse books, and frolicking in fucking meadows like you do? For the last time, Oleander; I won't go."

"But you could die if you stay here." Oleander clutches hold of Duncan's shoulders, his hands rough in a way they've never been before. "The next time your king marches to war."

"I'm a mortal man, and I'm going to die sooner or later, come what may. I can think of few better ends than falling in defence of _my_ king and _my_ realm. Surely you'd do the same for your own?"

Oleander's jaw sets firm and his fingers tighten, digging deep into Duncan's flesh, and for a moment Duncan fears that he might finally drop the pretence that Duncan has any real choice in the matter and drag him forcibly away to Elfhame, as he is surely powerful enough to do.

But then a sudden coldness washes over Oleander – his eyes harden, his expression turns blank, and he releases his grip on Duncan's shoulders, stepping back from the bed.

"Very well," he says, the words harsh and clipped. "If you're not willing to be reasoned with, there seems little point in discussing this matter any further."

He stalks out of the room, and he doesn't return for the rest of the day. Or the next.

On the third day, Sir Amery comes knocking on Mistress Kennedy's door again. Duncan leaves with him.

* * *

  
The king has arranged for a celebratory parade to greet Duncan's arrival at the palace, and on the on following day, there is a feast thrown in his honour. Once all the eating, dancing and carousing is done, the king calls for his own physician to inspect Duncan's still-healing wounds. 

The man tuts and frowns over them, and then tells the king that, whilst Duncan is mending remarkably well, he will likely never regain enough strength in his sword-arm or nimbleness in his steps to fight again. 

Six months later, his gloomy prognosis has been proven right despite Duncan's best efforts in his training. Duncan is gifted an estate and generous pension in recognition of his service in saving the king's life, then quietly retired.

Though the manor house on Duncan's new estate is small, it boasts extensive wood- and pastureland, a formal garden and a kailyaird, and a stream and lake both teeming with game fish. All of it needs careful management, but Duncan himself is seemingly superfluous to those requirements. His tenant farmers take good care of the land; his seneschal and staff see to every last detail of the running of the house and the tending of the gardens.

Duncan's days at the palace were highly structured, filled with his duties from sunup to sundown. Here, he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He entertains his proud family and old friends whenever they visit to admire his home; reads any book he can get his hands on; employs tutors to teach him how to paint and play the harp after his seneschal – having found him one too many times at a loose end and getting underfoot as a consequence – told him they were skills that a man of a his position should learn if he were to be considered truly accomplished in his new role of being rich and idle.

The time passes slowly, but it does pass - spring drifting into a lazy summer and then it's autumn once more. A full year since he last saw Oleander.

He's never stayed away for so long before, and Duncan concludes that he must finally have grown tired of him after their parting argument, as he'd always feared that he might. As he was never going to be what Duncan wished him to be, a true part of his mortal life, it's likely for the best. He tries not to think of him anymore, though the emptiness of his time makes that a more onerous task than he'd like.

One day in late autumn, Duncan returns to the manor house following a long afternoon of watching his gardeners at work in the kailyaird and learning all they had to tell him about the overwintering of vegetables, and is greeted at his front door by Oleander rather than his seneschal.

"Won't you come in," he says, bowing low as though he truly is one of Duncan's retainers before ushering him inside. "Your dinner's ready to be served."

The house is unusually quiet and still. Duncan can hear none of the usual hustle and bustle that usually enlivens the halls – the industrious sound of his staff at work. It's unsettling, and robs him of a great deal of the joy he'd felt upon seeing Oleander again. 

"Where is everyone?" he asks.

"I wanted to talk to you privately, so I told your staff to take the night off," Oleander says.

"And they listened to you?" Duncan asks. "Did you bewitch them?"

"I did not," Oleander says, sounding affronted. "Apparently, you'd told them about me, and said that they should do whatever I asked if I ever happened to call by."

"Ah." Duncan flushes white hot with embarrassment. He vaguely recalls making that request of them when he was drunk and feeling particularly melancholy. He'd even shown them a portrait he'd painted of Oleander – on another drunk and melancholy day – so they'd know who he was in the unlikely event that he did pay a visit. It had been produced with a great deal more yearning than talent, and he's somewhat surprised they recognised him from it. "I see."

"Come on," Oleander says, linking his arm with Duncan's. "We should go and eat before our food gets cold."

He leads him through into the dining room, which is dark, lit only by a few scattered candles that hide the true horror of the spread laid out on the table until Duncan has taken his customary seat at the head of it.

If Oleander hadn't already told him it was food, Duncan would have mistaken the contents of his plate for a heap of coal.

"You tried to cook again, didn't you?" he says, nudging at one of the blackened lumps with the tines of his fork.

"Well, I didn't have much choice in the matter," Oleander says, "seeing as though your cook isn't working tonight."

Duncan tries a small bite of a lump that he thinks might once have been a potato. It tastes of nothing but ash and is so hard and crunchy that it's a wonder that he doesn't crack his teeth on it in his brief attempt to chew it before he chokes it down whole. Unwilling to risk future injury of that sort, he decides to forgo sampling any more of the meal and lays down his knife and fork.

Oleander pushes his own plate away untasted, folds his hands together on his lap, and breathes out a long, wavering sigh.

"I've been thinking a lot these past few days since I left you, and—"

"Past few days?" Duncan breaks in, incredulous. "It's been over a year since I last saw you, Oleander."

"It has?" Oleander sounds honestly shocked. "Ah, I'm sorry, my dear. I never meant to stay away that long, but you know it's difficult enough at the best of times to keep track of how much time passes between our two realms, and I've been very distracted.

"Anyway, I was thinking about our little… predicament, and I decided that you were right. You've always been right. You can't come to live with me in Elfhame; you’d be giving up far too much. But I'm immortal, so… I should be the one to move here, to be together with you in your realm." He looks up at Duncan through diffidently lowered lashes. "Obviously, that's only if you want me to."

"If I want you to…? Fucking hell, Oleander; of course, I do!" Duncan laughs in surprised delight. "I've wanted that for a long time."

He reaches out for Oleander, meaning to clasp him close and kiss him properly for the first time, but Oleander places one hand flat against Duncan's chest and holds him back at arm's length.

"On one condition," he says.

Duncan's heart sinks. "What is it?" he asks dully.

"Well, when you _are_ a wizened old greybeard with no teeth left in your head, you have only a few days left to you, and your family are already expecting you to go, _then_ you'll come with me to Elfhame. You wouldn't become young again, but you would be rejuvenated, and we'd have many more years together there."

"I think I can live with that," Duncan says, and then he kisses Oleander, deep and long.

He is doubly glad that Oleander had dismissed his staff, as they soon make very improper use of the dining room table, and thereafter the second-floor landing, before finally making it to Duncan's bedchamber.

Duncan's bed is much narrower than the one he'd had in his palace quarters, and barely fits two, never mind three. He and Oleander have to lie all tangled up together on it, and though Oleander complains repeatedly and at length about how uncomfortable he is being pressed close against Duncan's sweat-sheening skin – and how inadequate mortal beds are in comparison to those made by the fae – he doesn't move away.

When he quietens, and the soft lines he's tracing up and down the length of Duncan's flank with his fingertips start to falter, Duncan asks him, "Do the fae sleep?"

"We can if we want to," Oleander says, his voice dragging tiredly, "but we don't _need_ to. Not in the same way you mortals do. You sound exhausted, Dunc."

"I am, but I don't want to go to sleep," Duncan admits sheepishly, through a yawn he has long suppressed. "I'm scared you'll have disappeared again in the morning, like how it used to be."

"I'll be here," Oleander promises, dropping a reassuring kiss on Duncan's shoulder. "I can't promise I'll be here _every_ morning. I do still have my own duties to attend to, though I am, perhaps, not as diligent about performing them as you, and I will want to visit Elfhame from time to time, aside. Time does pass a lot more slowly there than here, but my own friends and family will miss me, all the same.

"But if you ever need me, or even just miss me too much whilst I'm gone, then you should leave a bowl of whisky out for me, and I'll come back here as soon as I can." He smiles – a soft curl of warmth pressed against Duncan's skin. "Now you're a rich man and can afford the good stuff, I might even drink it, too."  



End file.
